


The Draw

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has had a monster on his shoulder for a long, long time.</p>
<p>Steve helps, but depression is not beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Draw

**Author's Note:**

> If depression is even remotely triggering for you, please please please do not read.
> 
> I've had an awful time recently, so I wrote this. Or, I've been writing this on and off for the past month or so. Anyway, I finished it. I gave it the most hopeful ending considering.

There is nothing beautiful about depression.

Not that Tony has ever called it that; when he was younger he had funks. Periods of time where the smile on his face was stretched so tight it began to thin, and fray, until it snapped and he found himself unable to leave his bed. 

He realises this now as his head stays pressed against an unwashed pillow. There is nothing beautiful about the stench of body odour and greasy hair, or the bags under his eyes, or the way his fingers twitch and he lies listless on his back trying to find patterns in the white ceiling. There is nothing beautiful in his filthy shirt and crumpled sweats, the crushing feeling of futileness that keeps him anchored to this bed like a single raft on an open sea. There is nothing beautiful about closing your eyes and not caring if you don’t wake up.

After three days, Tony pushes himself out of bed. He washes his hair, shaves, dresses in a tailored suit and practises smiles in the mirror. It’s pathetic and sad and sometimes Tony pictures what people would say if they ever caught him trying his best to perfect a look of happiness.

But no one ever catches him and life goes on.

* * *

Sometimes he considers telling someone. Actually telling them, not just having them be aware of it and vaguely accepting, like Pepper or Rhodey who take it as another idiosyncrasy. He thinks about telling Steve or Bruce or seeing a psychiatrist.

Except that’s an admission, isn’t it. That’s him accepting that he’s weak.

And then some months will pass, and he’ll be okay again, and getting up will stop being a struggle. He can laugh more easily. He will begin to see the better things in life, look forward to them, instead of letting the weight of everything he’s done, will ever do, and has failed to complete compress his mind.

It was worse, when he was younger. Those in-between years after his parents died, after he graduated, where he was left to his own devices.

When nobody, not one person, cared whether he lived or died.

That hurts. That had hurt. One night he had gotten drunk enough that he had stood, laughing on the roof of the mansion, threatening to jump even though no one was there to watch.

That had certainly marked a low point.

After that, Tony had taken things into his own hands. Cut down on the drinking even though withdrawal made his hand shake and his head spin. Made himself wash every morning, eat three square meals a day. He took up boxing, jogging. The exercise helped.

He tried burying himself into every warm body he saw only to leave the next morning. He lived life day to day, not thinking about the future.

Which is funny, really, because now the only reason he’s still living is for the future.

* * *

Today they are fighting. And it’s terrorist, it shouldn’t be SHIELD business except they’ve completely levelled a small town in Texas and they’re using Chitauri weaponry so the Avengers are sent to put them down and take no prisoners.

It lasts a week. The fight lasts a week. They are unable to get the main stock of weapons until they breach the high school where they’re keeping them along with six hundred students.

It’s sick and fucked up and everything wrong with the world and so for six days they wait and take down anybody that comes to try and ward them off. They circle the school like vultures waiting for their chance.

Which is when Steve tells them they’re going to launch a full frontal attack. And Tony knows that too much can go wrong but he doesn’t say it, because they’re beyond jokes or simple measures because those children are going to starve long before they get those weapons.

In the end, the town is decimated and a group of thirty-two kids die because Tony didn’t reach the bomb in time.

* * *

After that, and after the cursory debriefing, the mourning, the press attention and public response, Tony has trouble sleeping. More than usual. The nightmares that frequented him on a regular basis become full on night terrors, terrifying and far worse than he has ever experienced. He will wake screaming on most nights, it tears from his throat and it always takes so long for him to reorientate himself that he’s left wondering what’s real and what’s fake.

He misses a meeting that he was supposed to be consulting on about the Chitauri weaponry because he sleeps in. He sleeps and he can’t wake up because it’s been weeks since he’s been able to shut his eyes and truly rest and he wakes at 8pm by which point everyone is home and eating. He doesn’t want to face them and he doesn’t know why they didn’t wake him up.

“We tried,” Clint says, irritably “but your door was locked and Jarvis wouldn’t wake you up.”

He makes sure that in the future Jarvis doesn’t do stupid things like ensure his well-being because he really doesn’t have time for it.

* * *

He’s beginning to slip.

It’s been months since his last… funk. But he can feel it rising in him, starting to swallow him up. It starts with a melancholy, he begins to wonder what the point of updating the suit, why would it really matter. And then he starts to loose the interest, he doesn’t really want to update it, he can’t be bothered and it’s upsetting and frustrating but he can’t stop it.

It culminates when one day he wakes up and he can’t get out of bed.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. He can’t, there’s just no point, and nobody sees it that way but there isn’t. God, it doesn’t matter what he does, people always die, people are always dying and he can’t stop it.

It has a knock on effect because if he can’t really stop the world from dying then why should he bother building suits, or doing charity galas or attending meetings. The world is a cruel, unsafe place and he wants no part in it.

After two days of not moving, not eating, and only drinking from the water he keeps by his bedside Steve knocks on the door.

“Tony? Tony are you alright? We’re worried,” and he sounds worried but it doesn’t do much “are you sick?”

Tony doesn’t say anything, he just rolls over, away from his window, and stares at the wall.

* * *

When he crawls his way back to some semblance of sanity and makes himself reasonably presentable he goes to the open floor. He plans to get some coffee and, yes, talk to people because a week spent in bed debating your continuing existence has made him somewhat desperate for human contact.

But of course it’s only Steve.

He makes his coffee quietly as Steve looks over papers and it’s not awkward it’s just not particularly comfortable either.

“You feeling better?” Steve says and Tony smiles, feels it tight over his teeth although he knows to keep it looking loose and nods.

He should probably say something so he just uses his coffee as an excuse not to talk about it. 

“You got anything planned for today?”

Tony shrugs, looks at his mug.

Steve’s eyes narrow “Maybe you should go out. The fresh air might do you some good.”

Tony nods again and Steve shakes his head.

He goes back to bed.

* * *

“Tony? Tony, open the door.”

“Tony, we’re worried, you need to let me in.”

“If you don’t let me in I’ll break it down.”

“Please, I’m worried.”

“Tony, come on.”

“Tony.”

* * *

A few weeks later Tony sits in the kitchen looking over plans for a new Stark tower in Dubai. He’s so tired and he hasn’t slept in days and so he makes his way to the couch, it’ll be more comfortable there but as soon as he sits down he shuts his eyes, lets them rest, and he promises it will only be a few minutes but the minutes stretch to hours and he falls into a deep sleep.

He dreams, or has nightmares, and he whines and kicks on the couch, presses his head back into the pillows. Steve finds him like that, mumbling to ghosts and scrunching his fingers tight against his chest, and he eases his head down and takes off his shoes and covers him with a blanket. The hand on his hair still the terror some and he calms, falls down deeper and sleeps for thirteen hours.

* * *

For the first time Tony worries that it won’t go away. 

He can’t fight it, anymore. The lack of care over whether he dies becomes the crux of his life. He takes risks, violent, bloody risks with his life and it’s partly that he doesn’t know anymore and also that the adrenaline makes him feel just a little bit more alive.

For the first time Tony considers that ending it all is maybe better than the alternative.

* * *

People die. Tony knows this. He has always known this. And he is powerless to stop it. He cannot cheat the deaths of everyone across the entire planet of Earth. Yet still it weighs on him. Every time someone dies because he didn’t get there in time, he wasn’t fast enough, or he didn’t put down the threat quickly he sinks lower. Sometimes he has to make choices, he has to choose between saving a screaming mother and her three children or four young boys who speak a language he doesn’t understand but whose fear is palpable.  
He wonders why he bothers. He can’t stop death. He could force his own.

* * *

Control, then, would be the ability to choose when he can die.

* * *

Steve stops him one day as he walks in a corridor.

“Tony,” he says “how are you feeling?”

The questions takes him aback. How is he feeling? Why would Steve want to know?

“Fine,” he says “how are you?” It’s more a question for himself, confusion is written in his features.

Steve laughs “Actually, I’m going for lunch. Why don’t you come with me?” 

Tony stares for a while and then Steve’s eyes grow concerned. He’s worried Tony will turn him down.

“Uh,” he says, and he doesn’t know, should he? It would make him feel better but—

you don’t deserve to feel better

“Uh,” he tries again and suddenly the weight of making a decision in crushing his lungs. They’re the only ones in the corridor and he can’t escape without giving an answer.

“Yes,” he blurts and Steve smiles.

* * *

They’re laughing, and talking about stupid politicians when Steve broaches the subject.

“Tony…” he starts “we’re… well, we’re concerned.”

Tony focuses on his salad “Concerned?” He mumbles.

Steve leans closer, rubs the back of his neck “Look, I know,” he looks around “it might be difficult to talk about—”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

Steve shakes his head sadly “Some days, Tony, you don’t get out of bed at all.”

Tony is outraged “That’s not, that’s, you have no right to talk shit like that Rogers.” He snarls “I’m fine.”

And Steve shakes his head again, says softly “Tony, it’s okay not to be.”

And Tony wants to cry, kinda, but he can’t, not here in front of these people. And he’s angry, too, because he hates that Steve can make him feel this way. So he purses his lips, looks away.

“I can help. If you’ll let me.”

And despite himself Tony turns and asks “How?” and it’s said so quietly and so hopefully it turns Steve’s heart round in his chest.

He shifts his hand, moves it so it’s close to Tony, palm turned up, inviting.

Tony looks at him then takes it, his calloused flesh pressing into Steve’s hardened skin.

* * *

Tony gets drunk.

Like, really drunk.

Because he was stupid. Because he let someone in, and now they know, and they know he’s weak. And selfish.

They know how selfish he is, because people are dying right now that he could save but instead he’s moping and drinking and being selfish selfish selfish.

He drinks until he can no longer taste it, he just sits on the floor and does nothing else but down bottle after bottle and can after can until his stomach can’t hold anymore and he’s throwing up.

He lies in his sick and then starts drinking again.

* * *

When he wakes up he’s in hospital.

Steve sits by his side “Tell me it wasn’t on purpose,” he says quietly “please.”

And Tony just doesn’t know.

Depression is not beautiful.

* * *

When he gets home Steve tells him flat out that he needs to get help. That he needs help or he will tell Fury he no longer thinks he’s fit for the initiative.

Tony screams at him, how dare he use this against him, he told him that he would help and now he’s just turning it on his head and spitting it back at him. Steve never wanted him on the team, Tony realises, he just wanted an excuse to get him off it.

He has one session with a woman whose name he won’t remember and she asks him questions to which he does not answer and at the end of the hour she shakes her head and tells him not to come back.

He grins.

* * *

After that he tries to get his life back to fit into some caste-iron mould of normality. He gets up, eats, works, eats, works, eats, rests, sleeps, and then repeat and repeat and repeat. 

Outside, people continue to die and he can no longer lie around Steve.

* * *

He gets low.

He gets very low and this time he can’t see any hope to get him back up.

He writes a note, folds it and leaves it on his desk. He has electronic protocols as well, obviously, but the note says ‘I care,’ and ‘I’m sorry,’ and just feels more personal, somehow.

He’ll use a gun. A well placed bullet might be messy, and it’ll be quick.

After all, depression is not beautiful.

In Tony’s mind, he knows that people will be sad that he’s gone. He knows that. And he’s sorry he will have to leave his company, and his friends, and Pepper and Rhodey and Steve and Bruce. He knows that there are people who love him.

But in Tony’s mind, that doesn’t matter. He thinks that they will be able to go on without him. And that sure, they’ll be sad, but they’ll get over him quickly. They will move on. 

He stares at the gun for a long time.

And he doesn’t do it. Of course he doesn’t do it.

He never would have actually put that gun in his brain and he knows it.

It would be selfish, he reasons in a way that only Tony Stark could, to deprive the world of his ideas. To leave such a paltry legacy. He doesn’t deserve to die when he knows that he can change the world, that he can offer so much more.

It doesn’t make him feel better, but he burns the note and puts the gun back into his draw next to untouched pills and a picture of his father.

* * *

He still won’t talk to Steve. He betrayed him, Tony told him, he opened up to him, and Steve threw it back in his face. He had, he, Tony had tried to drink away his problems, he had slipped, and Steve’s reaction had been to confirm that yes, in fact, he was worthless.

It makes Tony feel like he’s too broken for Steve to fix. It makes him feel angry, because Steve had said that he could help as if he understood, or as if he cared, but as soon as he saw how broken Tony was he realises it was too much work.

It hurts that Steve was so easily ready to give up on him. It hurts that he threatened to throw Tony off the team. Because, because this is Tony’s life, this team is Tony’s life, and he doesn’t know what he would do without them.

* * *

“Tony,” Steve says as Tony sneaks out from his garage.

Damn. Jarvis, the fucking snake, had said the coast was clear.

Tony clears his throat. “Steve,” he says cheerfully “you’re in my way. Move.”

Tony steps to the side but Steve follows, pressed close, not letting him pass.

“It’s been two weeks, Tony,” he starts as Tony tries to push past “you haven’t—” he swallows “I’m sorry. If, if what I said came out the wrong way, then I’m sorry.”

Tony blinks. Then smiles sweetly. “Get out of my way.”

Steve lets him pass, sighing. But he follows him down the corridor.

“Tony,” he says “I mean it. I… it came out wrong.”

“Uh huh.” Tony says, ignoring him.

“Hey,” and he feels Steve’s hand on his arm.

Tony spins, knocks it away, “Don’t touch me.” He spits.

Steve takes a step back. “Tony,” he says softly “please.”

Tony relents. Just like that. All it takes it one, gently spoken ‘please’ and he’s his.

He swallows. “I—” He starts, then looks down. “Would you really, uh,” he scratches the back of his head “if I couldn’t… I mean, I can get better, if, if you know.” He looks up, eyes flicking briefly to Steve’s “or maybe, I could try not to make it into a problem. I’ll keep it toned down, I, I’ve done that before. Sorry, I mean, it runs away with me sometimes,” he forces a chuckle, a smile “but I can stop if—”

Steve frowns. “What?”

Tony blinks. “I said, if it, I know it’s a problem, I can keep it toned down, you know, I won’t be so in your face with it. Just,” Tony’s expression is pained “don’t kick me off. Don’t make me leave, I don’t think I could, this is my life—”

He starts to sob. Ugly, rasping sobs. He covers his mouth with a hand, eye streaming, trying to stall the noises and Steve’s staring at him, he’s just staring, eyes wide, and Tony turns, spins, sets his arm against the wall and leans, tries to hide his face.

“Shit,” he sobs “shit, I’m sorry,” he starts to walk away, face crumpled, crying like a child.

He feels a hand on his wrist.

“Tony,” and Steve’s voice is sharp, like a splinter of light in the dark “don’t.”

Tony’s arm is pulled back by Steve but he remains leaning against the wall, head buried in his arm. He shakes his head. “Don’t?” he stumbles “don’t watch me, go away.” 

He can’t let this happen, he can’t have Steve watch him fall apart, he can’t, nobody can watch this happen, there’s too much riding on him, and it’s embarrassing, he hasn’t cried like this since, he hasn’t, it’s been a long time and he can’t break down here, in the fucking corridor, he can’t and Steve isn’t leaving, his hand tightens round Tony’s wrist.

But it feels like something has snapped inside him, something irreparable, and he doesn’t know if it was the cage holding him down or the structure holding him together. Something has come loose, a dam has burst, and he is open like a wound, hiding nothing.

Steve tugs, gently, pulls him closer, and Tony has neither the physical strength nor willpower to refuse. Steve takes both of his wrists in his hands, strokes soft circles as Tony ducks his head, desperate not to look him in the eyes, to see the disgust or pity he knows will be there.

“It’s okay to cry,” Steve says quietly “it’s okay, Tony.”

And he pulls him in, and Tony’s head falls into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrap around the back of his shoulders, and he’s sobbing, and sobbing, and shuddering, tears staining Steve’s top as the man holds him tight, no questions asked, just pulls him closer, one hand stroking down his back, making inane noises of comfort in his ear, ‘shh,’ and ‘it’ll be alright, it’s all alright,’ and ‘you just cry, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony sobs “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that your sick? Sorry that you ended up in the hospital?”

Tony nods into his shirt, cries out louder, hands fisting in Steve’s shirt.

“Sorry that you can’t get out of bed? Sorry that somedays we don’t see you at all?”

Tony nods again, shudders, holds on tighter. Steve is right, he knows he’s pathetic, he knows he’s a screw up, and he’s sorry, he really is, fuck, he’ll fix it, he’ll fix himself.

“One more thing, then,” Steve says, voice perfectly calm, hand moving up and down Tony’s back “do you know that you have nothing to apologise for?”

Tony blinks blearily, pulls back. “What?” He asks, shame forgotten for a moment, pushed away by shock.

Steve’s face is fierce. “You’re blaming yourself,” he says “you, you’re blaming yourself for being ill, that’s not, how can you do that?” He shakes his head, hands flying to Tony’s cheek, thumbs swiping gently down his cheeks. “Let me help,” he says softly “please, Tony, don’t feel like this. It’s not worth it,” he breathes “and you can get better. Let me help.”

Tony’s lip quivers. And he voices his deepest fear.

“I can’t,” he whispers “I can’t, I’ve tried and it doesn’t go, it always comes back it’s like a monster on my shoulder. Somedays it’s quiet, but others…”

Steve hands slide down his cheeks, grip his hands tight. “What does it tell you?” He says urgently “What does the monster say?”

Tony shakes his head, dumbfounded. He can’t, how does Steve know, how does he know that the monster can talk, it just, he steps back, shaking.

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve says gently “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t, I pressed too hard. I, Jesus, let me help you, please. When I, when I told you,” and Steve’s voice is suddenly low, urgent “when I said I would kick you off the team I wasn’t thinking, I was scared, okay? And, it’s a shit excuse, I know, I know that, I should never have told you I would take that away, like, like it’s a punishment for being ill that’s not—” Steve breaks off, face flushed. He runs one hand over his forehead.

“What I meant, what I mean, is that, I was scared. I was scared because, Tony, I don’t want you to die. And the thought that…” he shakes his head “please. Let me help.”

Tony stares. There are still tears tracking down his cheeks. He’s crying silently.

No one has ever really said that before. Not like that. That he’s, that he’s ill. And that he can get better, it’s, it’s refreshing. It feels hopeful. If Steve thinks he can get better, then maybe he can.

Tony nods. Breathes deeply.

“Come on,” Steve says “you should sleep. Get proper rest, we can, look, we can draw up a game plan in the morning.”

Tony is grateful. He is so shockingly grateful. The idea that Captain America cares, cares enough to hold his hands, sit him on the bed and dry his face, run a wet flanel of his eyes, sweep back his hair and help him out of his dirty clothes, tuck him in and stay, waiting until he falls asleep astounds him.

“Thank you,” Tony mumbles before he falls under, and he never quite catches Steve’s reply.

* * *

Some weeks after that, Tony has meltdown.

Even now, he can’t remember what triggered it, or why. He remembers Dummy, and the broken suit parts littered around the floor, and the blood running down his arms. He remembers the pills, and the vodka, and downing them all even though he knew it wouldn’t be enough to kill him, and then he remembers ranting, screaming at Clint, and Steve and Natasha, gun drawn, waving it wildly, trying to articulate some kind of deep, hidden thought that he’s never managed to speak before, but mostly just screaming.

It ended with hands on his shoulders, dragging him to the floor, and tears. He vaguely remembers throwing up.

The next clear memory is hands cleaning the cuts on his knuckles from where he had punched glass. And then crisp white sheets drawn over his battered torso.

As a result, everyone knows. The whole team knows. The only person Tony will see is Steve, Pepper and Rhodey, which means that Steve acts as the go-between between Tony and the rest of the Avengers.

He is understanding. He doesn’t judge him. And he insists that the rest of his team don’t, either. But Tony is not convinced. He is waiting for the hammer to drop, for Steve to insist he leaves.

But he never does. 

Instead, he brings him water. Food. Cleans his knuckles and massages the knots from his back. A week later, when Tony swallows his pride and goes back to the shared floor, he sits at the island in the kitchen, morosely drinking his coffee. 

Natasha kisses his forehead and Clint pours him more.

And that’s the end of that.

* * *

He sees a psychiatrist. He comes to the Stark family mansion, to be discreet, and Tony wears sunglasses the whole time, although he’s kind enough not to mention it.

After three sessions, he has a clear diagnosis. “You’re a manic depressive, Tony.” He says, and Tony gulps. “Bipolar, is what we call it nowadays.”

“I know that,” Tony snaps, and in a way, he’s happy, he’s relived, because bipolar feels so… manageable. Or maybe that’s just the meds talking.

Either way, he has a clear cut diagnosis. And now, he can fix it. You can’t solve an equation without finding x.

The doctor hands him a prescription for mood stabilisers, 200mg twice daily. They work, for the most part, even though he starts gaining weight. Which is okay. That’s fine. That’s good. Steve says he was too skinny anyway.

* * *

He falls into a routine of meds, work, Steve. Meds, work, Steve. He moods balance out, his funks fade away, and for the first time in while he begins to feel like he might be worth something.

One night, as Tony watches the news, Steve sits next to him. They stay in silence, hearts beating in tandem, until Steve takes his hand.

“I’m glad,” he starts “that you’re, you know, feeling better.”

Tony duck his head, smiles. “Uh,” he says “yeah. Yeah, I am.” And then he looks up. “Thank you,” he says “I, thanks. No one, they never,” he swallows. “I would be dead,” he says bluntly “I would be dead, if you hadn’t.”

“Don’t.” Steve says, wincing. “Don’t say that, I don’t want to think—”

“It’s true,” Tony continues “and you’re the reason I’m still here, you’re the reason—” he breaks off.

Steve stares at him. Tony looks back. 

A caress of the cheek sends electricity down Tony’s spine.

Hot breath of his lips.

And then a kiss.

Steve pulls back. “You thought,” he whispers “that you were worthless. But how can you be worthless when I love you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Tony says, breathless “don’t. Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Steve says, and there’s another tender kiss, hot on his lips “It’s true. And you should know, even if you never love me back,” a hand on his cheek “you should know how much I love you. That you are loved. That you are wanted. That you are not worthless, not now, not ever, I love you, I love you, Tony, and you need to see,” and brush of lips against the back of a hand “how much you mean to me.”

There is something heavy in Tony’s throat. A lump, thick, and he chokes on it, can’t get out the words. He shakes his head, eye shining. “I love you,” he gasps “I love you, oh God, I can’t—”

Steve smiles, he laughs softly, and their foreheads meet. “Thank you,” Tony says “thank you—”

“You don’t thank me for love, Tony,” Steve says “loving you isn’t a favour. I don’t love you because I, I expect something in return. You don’t say thank you to love.”

“I know,” Tony gasps, and he lets himself smiles “fuck, I know, I don’t know why I said that, just,” he frowns “fuck it, kiss me again.”

Their lips collide, and it’s all teeth and tongue, smooth flesh and hand that chase the nightmares away.

* * *

There are slip ups. There are accidents.

One night, Tony wakes up screaming, and Steve locked in his own nightmare, punches him in the face hard enough to leave his head swollen and a mild to moderate concussion.

There are arguments. Steve and Tony, on a fundamental level, have the same beliefs. They just have very different ways of getting there.

Depression is not beautiful. Despite the drugs, despite Steve, and friends, there was always going fall downs. Pitfalls. That’s life. There are days when, unexplained, untriggered, Tony does not leave the bed. And it’s inexplicable. The night before, he will smile, climb into bed, Steve holding him in his arms, and then in the morning he will be lifeless. He’ll ignore Steve’s attempts to get him out. At best, he’ll tell Steve to leave him be, at worse he’ll just stare at the wall.

Tony knows that depression is not beautiful. He knows it in those days, when he hates himself, when he feels lower than low, when he can’t see any reason why Steve would stay and he gets caught in a cycle, because the longer he stays in bed the longer Steve hates him. 

Even though he tells himself it’s not the case, there’s still that little monster perched on his shoulder, on his pillow, in his brain. 

Those nights, after he hasn’t moved, caught up in his own self-worth, Steve will bring him food. Stroke his hair. Hold his hand.

Maybe the next day, maybe the day after, eventually, Tony will force himself up and he will keep going. Life will normalise.

He is happy. Despite it all, he is happy. He does wonderful things. Steve reminds him daily, Steve keeps him grounded. He tells him that he is only human. When things go wrong it’s not always his fault, and it’s not an expression of his self worth.

Tony is happy.

Depression is not beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote this partly in response to people who maybe feel like depression is a fashion accessory, or not a real issue. Because it really is. 
> 
> If you have any questions, find me at [my writing blog](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


End file.
